


Freestyle

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: DDR au, F/M, Summer Fic, boardwalk au, reverb 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soul steps out of his comfort zone and finds his way into the Death City Arcade, where he meets new friends and learns the art of DDR and companionship. [reverb 2015]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo many thanks to my betas for wading through this while it was still a steaming pile of crap. You can find earth-shines, rebornfromash, l0chn3ss, sojustifiable, redphlox, professor-maka and makascythemeister all on tumblr! Also many, many thanks and creds to sojustifiable for shark blocked.
> 
> My partner, resonicance, and his art can be found on tumblr as well!

Black suits, Soul realizes, are not great summer attire.

Not just because they're stuffy and involve a ton of fabric swaddling his sweating form, but because black attracts the sun and he's pretty sure he's being cooked alive. Not only is he wrapped in a fitted slow cooker and sweating his balls off, but he also looks out of place. Amongst the beach goers and girls in their summer clothes and heart-shaped sunglasses, he lurks as an uncomfortably tall  _beanpole_  of a boy thanks to a recent growth spurt. He slouches and stuffs his hands in his pockets - which are more like portable ovens than anything else - and tries to blend in with the crowd.

It's not easy. Preteens giggle and point, elderly ask him if he's lost, and a dog trails behind him hoping for snacks or maybe a belly rub, but somehow it's still better than sitting at home and angsting over his piano.

He slides his phone out of his pocket, half to check the time and half to see how hot it is outside (the answer is 3:23 PM and 92 degrees,) before he wonders what he's going to do to pass the time. Admittedly, his grand escape from his parents and Wes' ever frustrating presence hadn't been his most thought-out plan - he has practice scheduled in 7 minutes and no plans to head back home until at least sundown.

And so he walks aimlessly down the boardwalk, head tucked down, not quite sure where he is or where he's going, and rather liking the way the scattered beach sand stains the hem of his pant leg.

The sun is blinding, and his wandering becomes rushing towards what appears like to be an arcade, judging by the sign that sits on top of the building. It looks like it belongs in a Tim Burton movie, what with all of the skulls and jagged edges, but the stares he gets make him want to hide, and what better way to avoid people than to lose himself in a good game of skeeball?

It's a weak theory, but it's better than simmering.

He wonders how long this boardwalk - and arcade, by extension - has been here. He's lived in Death City all his life, but never took the chance to explore this part of town. Soul's seen the beach from his window and longed to meet the ocean, (or anything besides his bedroom walls, really) but never worked up the gall to just  _walk out_  before.

His first impression is startling, to say the least.

The arcade is no less crowded than the boardwalk, except it's less adults gallivanting about and more teenagers crowding around the popular machines - skeeball, hoops, shooters, air hockey - like schools of fish, clogging their respective areas but otherwise leaving the way clear for him to shuffle by.

There's a boy playing a shooting game to his left, but instead of letting one of the two blondes with him play, he's got  _both_ guns in his hands, pulling the triggers with his pinkies. By all means, the technique should render him near useless, but the guy has game.  _Mad_  game, judging by the score count that beeps and blinks as he shoots down another two zombies, narrowly avoiding death from a third.

"There's one on your left," he hears one of the girls say. Soul swivels his attention onto them while he tries to remain nonchalant. She twirls her hair around her finger and leans her hip against the machine, long legs tan and shapely. "You missed him."

"I did  _not_."

"You did."

"So did!" The other girl chirps. There's a bubbly exuberance to her tone that's completely alien to him. "He's gonna getcha, and then you'll be down to your last life!"

"A little faith, girls," the boy sighs. He headshots a zombie with his right hand and shoots a power up with his left.

He wants to linger and watch a little longer, maybe figure out if the boy really did miss a zombie to his left and is in shoot 'em up limbo while his demise festers, but there's a pulsing, throbbing, over-synthesized techno that tears through the arcade like a tidal wave, and it demands attention in a way that Soul can't resist - even if he really,  _really_  wants to. His trained ears pick up pulsations and rapid beats, and he knows at once that there's a game of DDR starting.

He might be sheltered but he's not stupid. He's seen tv, and he's been on the internet; a lack of personal experience doesn't mean he's unaware of an arcade game that peaked in the early 2000's.

But still, he's curious, so he wanders over and submerges into the crowd that has assembled by the damn machine. Soul thanks his recent growth spurt for his height and towers over a group of girls, peers over their heads, and watches with a quirked brow as a tiny blonde stomps down on the left arrow of the left pad, eyes bright and bangs slicked back. She turns, pushes her shoulders forward, and he stares blatantly at her ass.

It's not so much a choice as it is basic reflex. She's in tiny booty shorts, and the sight beckons him like a siren's call. He trails his gaze along the interestingly toned curve of her ass and down long, pale legs, and feels more like a creep than he ever has before - is that a Hello Kitty bandaid on her right leg?  _Fuck._

Horrified at his blatant ogling, he feels very sick and wrong and wills his gaze anywhere but virginal skin and adorable bandages. Her legs are strong,  _powerful,_  and he notices the impressive muscle that shapes her calves. She must have a banging cardio routine or something, because  _damn._

Then again, she's dancing -  _no shit_ she does cardio. He might be familiar with the waltz and more rigid forms of the art, but she's not half bad. Her form is loose and she doesn't entirely know what to do with her arms, but the girl has energy that could last for days, and he can read the determination and drive wafting off of her in vibrant waves of passion and whipping pigtails.

She stomps on the arrows with an impressive resolve. She's not classically trained, not by any means, but what she lacks in structure she makes up for in enthusiasm.

"YEAH, PIGTAILS," some kid with blue hair and a disturbing affinity for hair gel screams. "DON'T FORGET TO SHIMMY. WORK THE ITTY BITTY TIDDIES."

She flips the bird behind her and Soul thinks he might be in love.

* * *

Her name is Maka.

She introduces herself with an exhausted but bright smile as she grabs her water bottle and guzzles it down. She looks about his age, maybe younger, but it's hard to tell, what with her (adorable, but probably misleading) baby face and the twintails that she wears.

"You're new here," she says conversationally, and it's not a question at all - it's a fact, she knows so, and Soul shuffles and slides his hands deeper into the pits of his pockets. "Did you just move?"

"No."

She raises a brow. "Then why haven't I seen you around here? Or at school? You can't be that old… unless that white hair isn't a lie and you're actually a very nimble old man."

He snarls and flashes her a glint of his teeth. Why does it always comes down to his freakish looks? " _Funny_."

Maka smiles apologetically and twists the cap back onto her water bottle. He stares at her hands (because he's curious and also a  _musician,_  and scoping out good hands is like analyzing the competition. It's habit and he can't help it) and almost laughs at her short nails and nicked fingers; they're the hands of an athlete, not of a dancer or a delicate fairy. She might look tiny and cute, but this girl is rough around the edges, maybe even hardcore.

It's interesting, to say the least.

That hand is now jabbing at him and her eyes are expectant and curious, so he does as he's asked and slides his against hers and shakes. Her grip is firm and her thumb glides along the back of his palm unusually. If he didn't know any better, he might think she's flirting with him.

But she's expressive and open, and her eyes don't betray any amorous intentions.

"Soul," he blurts. "My name is Soul."

"That's a unique name!"

"Huh," he grunts mindlessly, hands back in his pockets and shoulders slouched.

"I like it," she breathes, and there's something in her gaze that thaws him a little. Maybe it's her honest, genuine wonder, or maybe it's the smile she wears that gets to him. She carries herself in such a bright, dignified way, and it's foreign to him; he's only seen that confidence either in the form of bravado (on him) or as sheer snobbery. It's almost unnerving to see it so genuine and vivid, like maybe this girl could carry mountains and probably snap him in half if she put her mind to it.

He shuffles and leans his hip against the Spider Stomp machine. "Thanks."

Her lips part and she goes to say something else, but is swiftly interrupted by an arm hooking around her neck, and then Soul's faced with the same blue haired guy from before. He's chortling and laughing, hair out every which way, and holy shit, the guy is  _ripped._  Soul shrinks back, almost intimidated.

(Okay, absolutely intimidated).

"PIGTAILS," he cackles. "Pigtails. Oh, man. Why didn't you shimmy? I thought we went over why the shimmy was a good idea. You've gotta pull in the people. Give the masses what they want."

Her nose bunches up. Soul wonders if it's from the way he's blatantly objectifying her or the amount of Axe body spray he's wearing.

"My dance doesn't need any embellishments," she huffs, nose high. It's like she's a tiny dog trying to prove her worth without the aid of a tall human reaching the kibble for her. It's adorable, and she plants her hands on her slim hips for added effect.

Her friend(?) snorts. "Well, it wouldn't hurt. Use your goodies for the sake of justice, Maka. It's not like Kid or I have tits to utilize."

"I'd rather you pay attention to how badly I'm kicking ass at the game, Black Star, and not if I'm wearing a bra or not."

"Are you?"

She shrieks and jabs her elbow into his side. He hobbles and howls, holding a hand over his ribs and glaring poutily at her. "It was for science!" he claims, but Soul's pretty sure they both know that it's a lie. "Yo, you with the stoner face! You feel me, right? She's not embracing all that she can bring to the table."

Maka turns to him and stares. He knows whatever he says next will decide if he walks the plank or works his way up the ladder of possible friendship - or at least acquantaincehood.

"... Her body, her choice," he shrugs. "'Sides, she probably should worry more about working her arms into her routine than anything else. Save the tits for a rainy day."

He probably deserves the whack to the head he gets, but Black Star's roaring laughter and the pink dusting Maka's cheeks amidst her fury tells him he has a foot in the door. Or at least a toe or two.

* * *

The arcade is a bit of a landmark, apparently, and a favorite hangout of the local high school kids. Both Maka and Black Star are natives, raised in Death City, and spent most of their childhood days at the beach or saving up tickets for the giant stuffed dragon that looms along the rafters of the arcade, rather than practicing piano pieces and  _again, once more with_ _ **feeling**_ , like Soul had. It's owned by the father of their friend, 'Kid', who favors the shooters over the more physically taxing DDR machines, and that's why it's been dubbed the official hangout spot of their ragtag group of friends - Maka, Black Star, Kid, and Liz and Patty, who were apparently the two blondes that Soul had seen hanging out.

It's a little funny how only Liz and Patty have normal names and the rest of the group sounds like something out of a children's book or a TV show, but Soul keeps his mouth shut. The potential for human interaction outweighs the temptation.

He's not sure how he ends up becoming adopted into their group of misfits. They're all so different in distinct, quirky ways. Between Black Star's affinity for the gym and bench pressing, Maka's bookish tendencies, and Kid's obsession with aesthetics, he's not sure where Liz's adoration for shopping and music and Patty's apt for art fall into place. It's odd, but it  _works_. They're meshed together, Black Star and Patty's laughter, Maka and Kid's raised brows and short sighs, and Liz's sly grins.

It's easiest for him to connect with Liz, if they're going by mutual interests. Liz has a taste for underground bands and indie music - and she dabbles in jazz, too, which is cool in Soul's book. It's nice to be able to discuss vibes and not have to linger on theory and the technicality. She grins and slides him a CD the third time they hang out, telling him to let her know what he thinks, and he goes home and pops it in his old walkman, letting it move him while he closes his eyes and blocks out Wes.

Black Star is a  _bro_. He tosses him a bag of Doritos and a Twix bar the first time Soul tags along with them for a trip to the drive in, and demands that he sits in the bed of his truck and deals with Patty's feet instead of him, because he's  _new blood_ and that's  _just how things work, bro. It's initiation._  He's loud, he talks too much, and he has no sense of volume control or an inside voice, but he also comes with fierce loyalty and a secret handshake; they're an odd duo, but it's easy for him to let loose and get into trouble when there's someone like Black Star calling the shots.

He learns that Kid has a thing for Liz from Patty a week after his initiation. She spews the information late at night, while the two of them wait for their ice cream sundaes (a banana split for Patty and a classic hot fudge sundae for him), and shoot the shit. She says it so quietly, so unlike herself, and smiles lightly as she tells him that she trusts him because Maka and sissy like him, and they're the best judge of character. He doesn't blush, but he may have fidgeted a bit. Patty laughs at him, claps a hand on his shoulder, and tells him to wear more sunscreen.

Maka is something else.

His original assumptions are absolutely correct - Maka Albarn is fierce. She's taking three advanced placement classes next year, and a book out of her stack of summer reading is thicker than everything Soul's read in the last decade combined. She goes on runs with Black Star and partakes in a book club, apparently, and sometimes listens to audiobooks when she does yoga. She's a shoo in for valedictorian and the title of Most Likely To Succeed - she's not his type at all.

He's a little hopeless over her. He stares too much, listens while she babbles and gushes about Shakespeare, and holds her books while she tackles Black Star down to the ground and demands he give her back her lunch money.

It's hard to pinpoint when enjoying Maka's company became enjoying  _Maka_. Sure, there was a base attraction that surprised even him - the number of girls he's dated thus far adds up to a whopping  _one,_  a girl named Anya that his parents introduced him to. They'd never gone farther than kissing twice and shaking hands when they amicably broke up.

It might be her smile, so bright and vulnerable that it fills him with a protective pride in the heat of his throat that's so misplaced it  _hurts_. She smiles at kids and lends her quarters to little girls who ask if she can teach them how to dance. She's genuinely kind in a way that could inspire him, he thinks, if maybe he wasn't trapped in his house half of the time, practicing piano and trying to burrow out of Wes' lumbering shadow.

She does inspire him to sneak out as often as he can, though. The thought is comical - the nerd in pigtails inspires big, bad,  _fucked up_  him to sneak out of his house to go play skeeball and get ice cream.

It's two weeks into his new life when Wes finally catches on.

He sits in the kitchen, pen tucked behind his ear and thumb tapping against the table when Soul blazes through. He leans back in his seat, palms flat on the table, and watches him grab a muffin before spinning quickly towards the door, ready to scram.

"Heading somewhere?"

Soul tenses. "Uh, yeah, just-"

"Out?" Wes quirks a brow.

It's like he's under a microscope and he  _hates_  it. Wes sizes him up and stares at him, brows raised as he twirls the pen between his fingers idly. He's so calm it unnerves him, so he shuffles where he stands and stares at his shoelaces instead of making eye contact.

"Yeah," he grunts. " _Out._ "

"You have practice in an hour."

"I'll be back," he lies. Wes smiles warily. "I will."

"You haven't been to half of your practice sessions this week. Your tutor's starting to get suspicious. Mom and Dad will be upset."

He grits his teeth and clenches his hand around his muffin. Crumbs tumble and fall, dribbling onto the otherwise impeccable tile. The maids won't be happy with him.

"You think?"

Wes scoots his chair back. Soul resists the urge to turn and beat feet out of the house, maybe grab some of his shit and camp out at Black Star's place. Would that be suspicious? Probably. Maybe if he dropped some bro names, Star wouldn't ask too many questions. Maybe say he's all torn up over a girl.

He stays put. Wes approaches. He slouches back.

Wes sighs. "Are you having fun, wherever it is you're running off to? Have you made some friends?"

He thinks of Liz and the CDs they've been passing back and forth. He thinks of Kid's quiet companionship. He thinks of Maka's tight grip and the way she laughs so hard she cries.

"Yeah," he says.

Wes buries his hand in the disheveled tuft of Soul's hair and messes with it, laughing softly. Soul squawks and swats him away, snarling, and Wes crooks an uneven smile, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "Go. I'll cover for you."

"... Seriously?"

"You've been a shut in for years, and only half of that is self induced. What kind of big brother would I be if I doomed you to your castle, princess?"

"Eat a dick, Wes."

He laughs. "Just get lost, Soul."


	2. Chapter 2

"Bro, are you trying to tell me that you've never played DDR?!" Black Star practically screams, dropping his fried chicken back into the bucket and shoving himself out of his seat. " _BRO._  That's a sin! Have you been living under a rock all of your life?! What kind of respectable teenager has never played Dance Dance Revolution? Especially in Death City?"

"Uh," he stumbles, looking to the group for support. Liz files her nails. Patty crafts her napkin into a paper swan. Kid looks up from his tablet, and Maka looks up from over Kid's shoulder. "No?"

"Seriously?" Maka chirps up. "Is that why you were gawking at me that first time we met?"

"I wasn't  _gawking!_ " Cool guys don't gawk at girls, even if they were girls with pretty eyes and nice legs.

"Damn, and I thought it was because you had the hots for her," Black Star chortles before stuffing his hand back into his bucket of chicken. He produces a drumstick and gnaws on it loudly, all but slurping up the skin.

Liz wrinkles her nose and scoots her chair closer to her sister. "That can't be human."

"I AM A GOD!" He chants through mouthfuls of KFC.

Maka turns her glance to Soul and lifts a brow. He shuffles in his seat, rests his elbows on the table, and plants his chin in his hand. He knows what's coming. He's seen that curious, determined glint in her eye before, and no part of him wants to subject himself to the upcoming interrogation. He thinks maybe he'll be able to weasel his way out of it if he frowns deeply enough, if he glares at her blatantly and tries to utilize the Soul Evans Bitch Face (c).

She goes to open her mouth and he glares more intensely, like he's trying to melt a hole into the center of her forehead via sheer power of will. But, alas, his efforts are in vain, and Maka laughs softly and reaches forward to nudge his shoulder.

"Really?" she asks. "Not even once?"

"Not really the performing type."

It's not a lie; there's nothing he hates more than being center stage, with all eyes on him and the pressure throbbing and palpable in his limbs. It installs a sense of anxiety in him, something that feels very gross and wrong, like there are ants under his skin and a frantic buzzing in his mind that inspires something like madness in him.

At least, that's how it is when he's cornered against his piano. He assumes it'll be the same if he's crammed on a DDR machine - the crowd's louder, but still made up of people with expectant and judgemental eyes.

Her lips press together and she straightens herself. "But you love music, Soul!"

"I love  _good_ music. DDR is not good music."

Liz snorts and pounds her fist. Maka's nose flares and she clenches the end of the table, eyes narrow. He sinks back in his seat a little, all bravado doused in the face of her ire.

"Well, I think it's good music. It's fun to dance to. What do you know about fun?" she challenges, leaning toward him and angling her shoulders. His gaze sweeps over her exposed collarbone and he forces himself away from the sight; there's too much cleavage on display for his own comfort, and he damns her bikini top to Hell. Why isn't she wearing a cover up? Isn't she concerned about sun exposure? Sunburn? Peeling?

She should be. The fairness of her skin is darling, and the sun brings out the freckles that dot over her nose and along the curve of her shoulders, but the virginal, pale skin of her stomach must be dangerously delicate to the sun's rays.

"Ooooh," Black Star jeers. Soul's attention snaps his attention back. "Called out, bro. You gonna just let her insult you like that?"

"Shut up," he grunts. He can't answer the question; what  _does_ he know about fun? He's lived his life thus far going to a prissy private school full of trust fund brats, trying not to depend on his big brother. "I have a good time on my own, without potentially murdering my cool to some stupid kid's game."

There's a hush, and then Black Star reaches behind him to smack him with his greasy chicken hands upside the head. Maka echoes his sentiment and Patty laughs at his misfortune. The sound of her laugh is demanding and honest, and it's the only thing that draws him out of his brute force-induced trauma. He rubs the back of his head and groans, narrowing his glare in on them and  _frowning_ , not pouting.

Liz clicks her tongue. "A rookie mistake, Soul."

"I think I smell a challenge," Black Star taunts. He whoops and slams his fists down onto the table, as if he's starting a revolution. His bucket of chicken is jostled and falls to the floor with a heartbreaking  _thud_.

And of course, it's Maka that rises to the challenge. It's Maka that takes his hand (read: grabs his wrist) and tugs him out of his seat, the determined set of her brows chilling him to his bones. He's dug his own grave, and now he'll have to reap what he's sown; picking on Maka and Black Star's hobby of choice is a death wish and he's careening with no brakes on a highway to hell.

"Let's go then,  _cool guy_ ," she grins hauntingly as Black Star clammers to the ground and struggles to collect his fried chicken before the five second rule claims his precious. "Show me how to dance."

* * *

Stage fright never really goes away.

But it's not a piano, he tells himself. Not a piano, not a piano. Breathe in, breathe out. He needs to be aware of his surroundings and how they're not squished in a concert hall, and it's not a spotlight that burns him and makes his skin crawl, it's the murkiness of the air and the salt from the ocean crusted onto him.

The dance pad is stable beneath his feet, a raised stage bolted to the floor, yet he's  _still_ scared he'll topple it. Or maybe he hopes he will, because then he won't have to be up here in front of everyone looking like a fish out of water. The music is too loud and the announcer is obnoxious. His lips pull and purse; it's physically painful not to mock it and make fun, to chant "FAR OUT" and "AWESOME" as he selects the difficulty (easy) and the song (Butterfly - a classic, apparently). The blues and the pinks and the purples flash and shutter. Soul's eyes black and then blur; he can count the shades of the spots that cloud his vision.

He heaves a shaky, cleansing breath. It's more of a defense mechanism than anything else. Snarking and scowling is all he has to protect himself, his annoyingly squishy insides and fluttering stomach.

"GET UP THERE AND SHAKE YO' GROOVE THANG!" Black Star screams.

He's barely audible over the beat picking up, the white hot fear coursing through his blood, the cold sweat that beads down the back of his neck; he's so fucked.

"You could always chicken out."

"It's just a game, Soul," Maka assures, her voice the only comfort amongst the fog of trilling beats and synthesized rhythm.

As the arrows begin to fly, he braces himself; his knees spread and he plants each foot on an arrow, effectively straddling this oversized controller and attempting to tame the beast. He misses the first five by a longshot, bow legged and lock jawed. Someone - probably Black Star - wolf whistles and then chortles, but Soul's too busy trying not to fuck up and get booed off stage to worry about it.

The next string of arrows are only narrowly missed - "good" instead of "bad", apparently - and he sticks his tongue to one side of his mouth because clearly this will help him focus. He's seen cartoons, he knows shit. When he gets a "great" twice in a row, he knows his technique has elevated him to mastery. Nailed it.

"You're not doing it right," Patty snorts.

Soul stomps on the up arrow twice, just to make sure he gets it. "Shut up. I'm concentrating."

"You're  _really_  not doing it right."

"What do you know?" he snarls. "I've never even seen you play this game."

"More than you do. You're not even dancing, dummy! You've gotta get your hips into it."

His hips don't swivel or shimmy - they just don't work that way, and when he gives them a jerk and tries for a fleeting moment, Black Star laughs and Soul regrets ever taking Patty's advice.

"Arm placement," Maka sing-songs. Her voice is drenched in smug retaliation. "Don't forget to think about your  _arm placement._ "

Of course that came back to bite him in the ass. His arms are tight in front of him, hands clenched into nervous fists, and if his nails were embedded any deeper into his palms, he'd be drawing blood. It's awkward and uncomfortable, and  _he can't figure out where to put his arms_. Score one for Maka.

"Shut it," he hisses.

"You're missing notes," she reminds him. "You're not supposed to just hit the arrows. We freestyle, Soul. It's not as easy as it looks."

"Pff, you should've seen Maka before we taught her the ropes," Black Star cackles, slinging an arm around her shoulder; she squints at him pointedly, cheeks puffed. "Adorably terrible. No sense of rhythm. Couldn't feel the music worth a damn. Don't let her sass you, bro. You're miles better than she was."

"Thanks for the backup, Black Star."

"I'm just keeping it real," he murmurs sagely.

"Maybe keep it real somewhere else?" she shoves him away and hops onto the dance pad. He back peddles and lets it happen, because anything is better than the half shimmy he'd managed earlier, compliments of Patty. It's incredible how much more natural she looks posed over the arrows, how much more fluid her movements are and how they flow with the rhythm.

He can tell she's done this song before. Maybe he accidentally picked a basic song, but it's clear that she's practiced in this one. Her feet know where to go and when, and the sway of her hips is infinitely more graceful and enticing than the way his had rocked to the beat. She twirls and flows, fluttering over the arrows and nailing timing better than he sure had. Something akin to jealousy bubbles in his throat, but he swallows it down, the taste tangy and bitter. It's not like it's a bad thing that she's good at something he's not, but he thinks it'd be nice to be better than someone at something for once.

"It's easy," she drifts toward him, hand outstretched, and his blood runs cold. What? No.

Soul tries to back out but finds the bar is digging into his ass. There's nowhere to go and Maka pins him to the spot with wide green eyes and a confident smile.

She leads him into battle like she's been doing it her whole life; her fingers link with his tugs him closer. Her nose is level with his collarbone, and it's less adorable so much as it's comforting that her face is so close to his heart, which beats so furiously that he fears it might jostle something in his stomach. Maka takes his other hand in hers and squeezes.

"Trust me, okay?" she hums, lips quirked into an equally comforting grin. Soul narrows in on it. "You take the right arrow and I'll take the left. We'll both hit the front two."

_Bad, bad, bad_  scrolls on screen. They miss a section of arrows while she explains the plan and his blood is pumping. "Uh-"

"Just -  _shift_ , Soul," she beckons, and he relents and eases into her pace. Black Star chants something about doubles and he watches her feet (cute pink painted toes and scuffed ankles clad in mint green, plastic flip flops) prance back and forth.

The motion he can manage. He follows trilling beats and crescendos with ease, because he's been programmed since birth to follow the flow of music, and rhythm is in his blood. But the arm placement, still, is uncomfortable and wrong, and he shifts her hand onto his shoulder and slides his own down to cup her thin waist to correct the problem.

She gasps, lips forming a perfect little 'o' and Soul's afraid he's made a grave mistake, but Maka squeezes his hand in hers and nods, cheeks buzzing with a warm, dizzying pink that has both of them stumbling over their feet for a moment. There's nothing smooth about them; they're a klutzy pair of idiots trying to waltz to DDR, but her smile is dazzling and he likes that her arms have finally found their home around him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Training becomes a thing between them.

"Maka's been looking for a partner for months," Black Star informs him, tugging his arms behind his head as he sprawls out on the ticket counter. "She's overbearing and tries to lead too much, you know? Not a good match for the great me, if you know what I mean. I'm the big man. I don't need her stepping on my toes."

"She doesn't exactly have big feet." Soul raises a brow and cocks his head - he's pretty sure he'd be happy with Maka stepping on his feet any day, if it meant being close to her, and he damns himself for being so pathetic. What kind of teenager needs that much guidance from a tiny girl with a penchant for skull-themed hairbows? "Who do you partner with then?"

"Kid sometimes," he shrugs. "And Maka. I'm more of a solo kinda dude."

"Sounds lonely."

"Sounds  _awesome._  I get to show off. Partnering is too much noise for me anyway - a lot of showing off each other's skills, bleh. I like when the spotlight's all on me."

Soul decides that breaking it to Black Star that he's incredibly self centered and kind of an asshole isn't worth the drama and shakes his head. There's a lot to be said about someone who willingly alienates themselves for the sake of attention, some things nicer than others - if anything, he understands a little bit; he's been fighting to crawl his way out of Wes' shadow for as long as he can remember.

"So…" he trails off.

" _SO,_ " Black Star grins widely. Something in Soul's blood runs cold and he takes about three steps back. "Ask her to  _partner up_ with you. Let her show you  _the ropes._  We both know you want her hands  _aaaaall_  over you, broseidon."

It reeks of double entendre, but he does as he's told.

Just in much nicer terms and without the flirtatious undertones, because he's still not sure Maka will ever feel the same way and he quite values the current arrangement of his face. He doesn't find himself particularly attractive, but still, nursing a broken nose and cracked skull isn't on the menu for him. Not when his parents will ask too many questions. Not when he has Wes covering for him.

And so he ends up standing with Maka behind him, her hands on his hips as she guides him through the motions of a shimmy. Thumbs dig into the waistband of his jeans and Soul wills himself to keep it cool.

He didn't think Black Star was being literal about the 'hands all over him' thing.

"This better not be a twerking lesson."

Maka chuffs and pinches the strip of skin where his shirt rises and leaves his stomach bare. "This has nothing to do with your butt. It's your hips!"

"Whatever you say, twerk-meister," he manages, gulping as she idly rubs an index finger along the skin above his hipbone. Maybe low rise skinnies weren't the best choice for dance lessons. "If you grab my ass, I'm leaving."

"Don't flatter yourself." But she does grab at his hips again, and  _firmly_. "Rotate.  _Swivel_."

He swivels and wiggles terribly enough for Maka to bark out a laugh and press her forehead against the back of his shoulder. She's so close that he can feel her body heat, wafting from her bare arms and firm fingers in waves of summer.

He's absolutely  _not_ thinking about her bare legs and the way her hips keep bumping into his ass when she giggles out, "No, no, never do that again," and drums her fingers over his stomach.  _Something_  jolts within him, something broken and malnourished and he clears his throat uncomfortably before he groans.

"Can we do something else?"

Maka props herself onto her toes and presses her chin against his shoulder. Her cheek brushes against his and, oh god, her skin is so soft and her face is so warm. "We really need to work on getting you to stop looking helpless, but I guess we could practice some DDR instead. Your timing is still not perfect."

" _Your_  timing's not perfect," he huffs childishly.

Her hand glides along his shoulder along the back of his neck too slowly for comfort, and he's barely suppressing a shiver as she wiggles her way around him and all but drags him to the DDR machine. Her fingers wind tightly around his wrist. He finds an odd comfort in it, feels like he belongs there and that he's needed for something, even if it's Maka Albarn's Dance Dance Revolution Boot Camp.

"Don't lock your knees," Liz calls, sitting girlishly on the ticket counter and clapping her flipflop against her heel. "And smile a little. You look constipated."

"Is that supposed to be helpful?"

"Just looking out for you, one hot kid to the next," she breezes, twirling a lock of golden hair around a manicured nail. Kid fidgets from where he stands (right behind the counter, with name tags pinned to both sides of his shirt) and she smiles easily at him. "Oh, come on; he's hot in a rough kind of way."

The ruffling and rustling of Kid's metaphoric tail feathers are expected, but Maka's frown and subsequent lacing of their fingers is not. Her thumb locks against his and she tugs again, as if she's parading him past Liz's perch. Her shoulders are squared and her head is held high, and dammit all if it's not simultaneously the most adorable and attractive thing he's ever witnessed.

When she turns around, her cheeks are stained a darling pink. He settles into a nervous grin, an uneven smile that has her mirroring him and squeezing his hand.

Liz is certainly a fellow hot kid. She's tall and curvaceous, bosomy and definitely knows a thing or two about kissing judging from the few times he's walked in on her and Kid, but she can't hold a flame to Maka. Her green eyes drill holes right into his soul and thaw him from the inside out, until he's nothing but a stammering mess of uncool and fluttering heartbeats.

"What're you doing tomorrow night?" he blurts.

The way her brows raise is entirely adorable. "Um."

Shit, is he overstepping? "Cause, uh - I was thinking about going to the fair, and I figure you'd know your way around, and-?"

She worries her lower lip, chewing delicately. Green eyes trace over him and he feels very, very naked, but almost  _giddy?_  She nods once, the corners of her lips pulling into a smile. "I mean, if you're asking for an  _escort-_ -"

"A  _guide_."

It's not a date, he thinks. He has no reason to get excited over Maka showing him around the fair, of all things, but his stomach does a funny flip-flop as she squeezes his hand. He has to wonder just where in the gray area between  _just friends_  and  _something more_ they linger.

"Tomorrow at six?" she suggests. "There are always fireworks Friday night."

There'll definitely be fireworks (not just in the way she's suggesting), but he keeps it to himself and grins slowly at her. He already feels little pinpricks of explosions in his tummy, anxious, excited bursts of heat that always seem to come back when Maka's around. "I'll be there," he nods, one hand sliding into his pocket easily and the other tucked neatly into hers. Her fingers are small between his but warm, strong and capable.

"And hopefully not square," she chimes, wiggling her brows, and  _god,_  she's such a nerd.

* * *

Maka looks beautiful in a dress.

Liz must have something to do with it. He's spent the entire beginning of summer with her and the only thing he's seen her wear so far are bikini tops, jean cut offs and dweeby graphic tees from the clearance rack. That's not to say that she's not girly, because she is - her curious affinity for Hello Kitty bandaids and hair ribbons are evidence enough - but she's also ridiculously athletic. DDR in a skirt just doesn't seem practical, after all, and Maka Albarn is nothing if not  _practical_.

But the dress suits her well.

 _Well_  is an understatement; the simple floral pattern is cute in the same way her usual pigtails are, and the fit of the dress flatters her figure. A simple fit-and-flare, tighter at the top, cupping her lithe shape and perky breasts before flaring out past her waist. It's short, of course, because she lives to torture him with the length and shape of her legs, and he's pretty sure she doesn't own anything that goes past her thighs.

"Nice kicks," he settles with, because it's  _not_  a date and telling her she looks stellar feels weird and maybe a bit inappropriate, but he can't keep himself from making some kind of comment.

It's a shame he always opts to snark. She really does look nice.

"I'm not walking around a fair in  _sandals,_ " she quips, marching over and scuffing his sneaker with her own. The tiny white Keds she's wearing are adorable, mismatched laces and all. "I might catch trenchfoot."

"Shit, Maka, what kind of fair are you taking me to? I didn't sign up for enlistment."

"Front and center, Evans," she teases. "C'mon, let's go!"

Up close, he can see that she bothered with eyeliner and something inside of him stirs. The dress was a red flag, but the makeup and lack of pigtails are telltale signs; she's all dressed up for him, no matter how much the sneaks make the look casual. His fingers burn and long to be tied up with hers again. It's not a date - at least, he was pretty sure it wasn't a date when he'd suggested this, but now he's not so sure. Are they on a date? Had he actually work up the nerve to ask her out without realizing it?

Soul really wishes he'd told her how nice she looks instead of sassing her. But what's done is done, and his tongue feels rather tied, so he brushes his arm against hers as they walk and keeps a watchful eye on the delicate way she pinks.

The time between walking in and buying Maka some funnel cake is spent worrying over if he's underdressed and if he should've gotten her flowers or not. Maka gets powdered sugar all over her face when she laughs at his offhand retelling of Black Star's attempt to pick up the girl scooping his ice cream the night before, and he brushes it off with his thumb. She stares up at him, eyes alight with a heat that has all the blood in his body rushing to his face and  _fuck_ , it's totally a date.

Whatever. He can fix this - cool guys win stuffed animals for their cute dates. The date can still be salvaged before Maka realizes that she's agreed to go out with a total rookie.

He grips the hammer and flashes her an easy, lazy grin. "Which prize do you want?"

Her brows raise. "Soul, I don't think you're going to-"

"Would it kill you to have a little faith? Sheesh."

"... The stuffed shark."

He runs his tongue over his teeth and double takes, turning back to flash a glance at her. The similarities between him and sharks had been the topic of conversation many a night, and there's no way she's unaware. Maka smiles guiltily and confirms it.

With new drive, he hefts the comically oversized hammer onto his shoulder and slams it down onto the puck. The Highstriker springs to life, puck rocketing up the length of the machine. It peaks about halfway and slips down, taking Soul's hopes and dreams with it.

His shoulders go slack.

Maka hums knowingly. "These things are usually rigged."

"Reassuring." Except not really, and he's the worst date ever. "I'm gonna try one more time. Just in case."

"Give me," she says, reaching out for the mallet and wiggling her fingers at him. He eyes her thin arms and slender shoulders suspiciously. Her legs might be made of death and destruction, but her arms are much more lithe in nature.

Soul walks away from the game with one comically oversized shark in his arms and a beaming Maka bumping his hip. Defeat and shame surges through his veins and he hangs his head.

"I think you should name it Soul Jr," she chirps cheerfully. "Jaws is too cliche for a shark. Mini Soul?"

"But why a shark?" he wonders aloud. "Why not like… a giant stuffed cat?"

Her secretive smile chills his shame. Maka hurries forward and turns on her feet to face him, arms tucked neatly behind her. He takes a moment to appreciate the way her blonde hair falls over her face and hugs her cheeks. It's the first time he's ever seen her with her hair down and the look is mature, flattering. It's different than pigtailed Maka, gungho Maka - she's almost cautious for a moment, calculating, watching.

She steps closer, closer, and his eyes widen at the way her lips press together.

She's going to kiss him. He's never kissed anybody before. Has  _she?_  Just how well versed is she in the finer workings of mouths and tongues?

Maka's hands brush his shoulder and her fingers dig in for support, and then she's propping herself higher and higher onto her toes. His heart smashes against his chest, quaking against his ribcage. She's close and her mouth is everything he's been (dishonorably, admittedly) dreaming of for a month now and he  _panics._  The stuffed animal is jolted forward and his first kiss is shark blocked. He doesn't think, he just  _reacts._

She squeaks, eyes flickering open, and he can almost taste the betrayal, burning and molten in her eyes. It quivers and melts into regret, and she's off of him and distancing herself. His heart sinks. It feels like he has bricks in his chest and he's rooted to the spot.

"Maka," Soul tries, voice cracking.

Her green eyes are watery as she motions forward. "Carousel's up ahead."


	4. Chapter 4

"I think it'd be cool to watch the fireworks from the ferris wheel," Soul suggests later. Maka doesn't look quite as crestfallen or shaken, but there's still an unnerving apology in the way she holds herself and it doesn't sit well with him. There are still loud, vocal parts of him that want to card his fingers through her hair and taste her breath, but he can't explain why he chickened out at the last moment without sounding like a loser virgin.

But he  _is_ a loser virgin and every time he looks at her his heart flutters in his chest. He wants to ask her if they can try again - once more, with  _feeling_  - but doesn't know how. Besides, he's already gotten her hopes up and let her down once. Why put her through it a second time?

Maka nods noncommittally and he slides his fingers around her wrist. It's tiny and he can wrap his fingers around it comfortably. He feels her pulse against the curve of his thumb for a moment and swallows his fears.

She's nervous and excited, too. It sends trills of vigor through his legs and he trips over himself.

Once the line disperses and they're faced with their cabin, Soul shoves the stuffed shark on the right side to favor climbing in to sit next to Maka on the left. She shuffles, smoothing her skirt over her thighs and muttering something about weight distribution and rocking the cart, but he huffs out, "I can see the fireworks better over here," and aims a good kick to the fin for good measure.

Her brows crease. "Be gentle with Little Soul. He didn't do anything wrong."

"He keeps getting in the damn way."

Tension teases through her gaze as she draws it from the offending keepsake to him. There's an unspoken question in her eyes and he hopes his hold an equal answer.  _I wanted to kiss you, Maka. I still do. I just don't know how to do it._

She licks her lips and picks at the hem of her dress. Soul stares blatantly, enthralled by the overwhelming expanse of bare leg that Maka's permitted him and the way her thighs look when she crosses one leg over the other. She flashes him a low-lidded look and he just about swallows all of the fair, cigarette smoke and cotton candy fumes and all. It's sugary and sweaty but none of that matters, not while she scoots closer and bumps her hip against his.

"Maybe…" She licks her lips and he thinks of about seven things she could do instead with that tongue, and none of them are appropriate, dammit all. "Maybe you should put him in time out."

His hand hesitantly glides over the rise of her knee. Her skin is cold but smooth, intoxicatingly soft, and he suppresses the urge to glide it down and caress the sacred area that is Maka's inner thigh. "How long?" He manages to blurt, paying only half attention to the conversation and a whole lot of attention to the way she's easily coaxed to slide her leg down and part her knees, just a little bit.

"Until college." She's got her hands on his jacket, and there's promise in her grip. "Or at least until after this ride is over."

He doesn't even notice the damn fireworks go off. His nose and teeth clatter against hers and he's clumsy, unsure, but Maka's hands slide from his jacket to his jaw and she steadies herself against him. It's nice to know that he was wrong, that Maka's not very experienced when it comes to kissing either (she's definitely biting his tongue and it's definitely an accident) but she's enthusiastic, and he's game.

So, so game.

Her breath comes out in heated, breathy pants and he tugs on her hips once, and before he knows it she's climbing onto his lap and kissing her way down his throat.  _Ah._  So that's what he's been missing. That's the infamous  _it._

They're racing through a bunch of firsts. First kiss, check. First date, check. First encounter with Soul's awkward boner, check _mate._  Maka's hips buck against him and grind eagerly and she mutters things into his neck, passionate things like  _please_  and  _yes_  and  _why do you wear such tight pants, Soul?_  that make keeping it cool very,  _very_  difficult.

"Haah, uh," he struggles. Her hips fit snuggly in his palms and he can't slow her down, not even if he wants to. "Whoa, maybe we should-  _aah,_  fuck," he sputters; she's found his weak spot, her tongue gliding up the length of his throat just to dot little kisses over the high points of his face.

Maka nibbles along his jaw delicately. "Talk less and kiss more, Soul."

Well, if that's how she wants things to be.

She doesn't have to tell him twice. His teeth find her neck with ease and he scrapes down the length tenderly. Her panting against his ear rouses him, gives him enough courage to allow himself to sink down and bite her lightly, just enough to leave a mark. Maka whines, low in her throat and begs "Again," like she's been waiting for it or something, and Soul's happy to oblige.

He's halfway through giving her hickey number three and massaging the wonderful softness that is Maka's breast when he hears Black Star scream "GET SOME!" and all but falls from his seat. He does kick a leg out, however, and Sharky McSharkerson tumbles to the cabin floor.

"No," he mutters against her throat. "No fucking way."

"DON'T ROCK THE BOAT BABY - SOMETHing something TIP THE BOAT OVER!"

"Are those even the right words?" Maka squeaks, rigid under his palms. He can still feel the shape of her breast through the fabric of her dress, nipple and all, and Soul wonders why god hates him. He has a braless Maka in his lap, ready and eager, and instead he's forced to deal with the idiocy that is his best friend, who is standing up in the cabin in front of them and waggling his brows at Soul through the window.

* * *

They walk along the boardwalk, hand-in-hand and enjoy the aftermath of the fireworks. The smell of sulphur coats them like a fog and Maka coughs politely into the back of her hand. They round past the arcade, long past closing and lights dimmed, and he's smacked with reality. When day comes and Maka's back to pigtails and dancing lessons, who will they be? Will he still be permitted to hold her hand? To kiss her?

He takes the time to spin her around and plant another one on her for the road, just in case it's all a dream or a freak accident that Maka has let him anywhere near her mouth tonight. She smiles against his mouth, easy and sleepy, and barely suppresses a yawn against his cheek.

"What are we?" Soul wonders aloud, and Maka hums in response. "Are we dating?"

"Worried about what you're going to tell Black Star?"

It hadn't been a thought in his mind. "Worried about what I'm going to tell myself so I can sleep tonight."

Her brows disappear beneath her bangs. She smoothes her thumb down the back of his neck, both arms laced comfortably around him, and pecks his lips again. "We're partners," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and Soul groans in exasperation. "We dance. We win."

"We kiss?" he asks hopefully.

Maka knocks her forehead against his. "I'd like that."

* * *

He sees her off with a kiss at her door and earns himself a glare from her father. It's fine, though; part of him is glad her dad sees how serious he is about her. There's not an overprotective father in this world that could keep him from making sure his newly minted girlfriend gets home safely and into bed with thoughts of smooches and  _him,_ hopefully.

It's worth getting home late - way, way late, ass crack of dawn late, and worth the look Wes gives him when he creeps inside and makes sure not to let the screen door slam behind him. There's a squinty, accusing slant in his stare that reminds Soul of their mother, and he can't help but chortle and reach out to push his face away.

"You're getting wrinkles, old man," he laughs quietly.

"Do you have any idea what time it is, Soul?" Wes hisses. "Where have you been all night? I've been worried sick!"

He could tell him that he's been kissing a girl, a spectacular, smart girl with big eyes and soft lips and a too-big heart, or maybe that he's had the time of his life pretending to be normal for once and not trying too hard to be something special. He could also tell him that after having a taste of what being a teenager feels like he never wants to go back to piano lessons and private school and tutors, but he decides against it and plops the stuffed shark in his brother's arms instead.

Wes stares at him, confused. "What's this?"

"It's been kissed by lady luck," he says flippantly. "Or, uh, Maka, at least."

"Maka?"

_Don't blush don't blush don't blush._ "My girlfriend."

Wes suddenly looks less like their mother and more like a proud grandparent. He beams at him and hugs the shark to his chest like it's a lifeline, all pleased eyes and dimples. "Your  _girlfriend!_ " he whisper-shouts. "Since when did you have a girlfriend?"

"Tonight," he shrugs. He kicks off his shoes and leaves them in the middle of the entryway.

" _Maka._  What does she look like?"

"Blonde. Tiny." He purses his lips. "... strong. Could probably snap me in half."

"You always did have a thing for girls that could murder you." Wes nods, a far off look in his eye. "Mulan, Starfire… Buttercup."

He's about to object (and also to claim that Buttercup is the coolest of all Powerpuff Girls and  _Fuck You, Wes_ ) but the hall light flickers on before he has the chance and Wes' gasp is audible. They exchange a low, nervous look and he fully expects Wes to flee, but his brother stays put for the sake of solidarity.

"Do you want the shark, or should I-?"

"Keep him," he mutters. There's no way Mini Soul the Stuffed Shark can defend him from his parents. Wes glances at him from around the fin on top of Sharkzilla's head and bites his lip. "Just be cool."

"Soul?" his mother calls. "Is that you?"

His mouth goes dry. "... Yeah, Mom. It's me," he answers, and readies himself for the death march.

* * *

" _BRO? BRO, WHERE ARE YOU?"_

Delete. Soul winces.

" _Soul? This is Kid. I'm just checking to make sure that you're okay. Patty is telling me that I need to tell you to get your ass in gear and get over here. Best wishes and hope to see you soon."_

Delete. His father raises a brow.

" _... Soul?"_  His breath catches. Maka. " _Nobody's heard from you in a week, and- did I do something wrong? I'm sorry… Please call back. Things can go back to the way they were, if that's what you want."_

It's not what he wants at all. How can she even think that?

The message is deleted and his phone confiscated, and he's back to piano lessons and watching the sun set through an immaculately dusted window. He can still smell the salty air and Maka's simple, girlish perfume on his jacket and it tastes like homesickness.

Soul rolls into bed and tucks the stuffed shark against his chest.

 


	5. Chapter 5

He has to get out.

His room is suffocating. He's spent too much time up in there, with black walls and indie posters that inspire nightmares and a stuffed shark that doesn't cuddle half as well as he thinks Maka might. Going from overwhelming companionship to solitude is jarring, stifling, and he can't look out his window without feeling like he's missing out.

He can't go back now that he's had a taste of freedom. It just doesn't work that way. Not now that he knows what he's missing - he's addicted and Soul's not much interested in finding a cure. To hell with his piano and recitals; he wants friends more than anything else.

Tying sheets together looks a lot easier on tv. His rope is embarrassingly makeshift and wobbly, and he finds that it's much too short to actually get him to solid ground when he tosses it out his window.

He has his head out his window and is contemplating coaxing a genetically altered spider to bite him when Wes taps him on the shoulder from behind. He screams, jolts upward, and bashes his shoulder into the window frame, littering a few swears over the lawn along the way. A passing elderly woman squints at him and he grimaces, waving her off.

"Wes!" he hisses. "What the fuck, give a little warning!"

"Sorry! Didn't think you were actually going to jump," he eyes his makeshift escape route wearily. "The housekeepers won't be happy with you. Ironing is a pain in the ass, Soul."

"I don't care. I need to get out," he grunts. "I'm dying in here. Did you hear those voicemails?"

Wes nods solemnly. "I take it the girl was Maka?"

"I deserted her," he sighs, thinking back to how only her father had been home to greet her.

There are few things one can do in the world to truly hurt Maka Albarn, and leaving her behind is right up there with cheating and bullying. He knows his little vanishing act hurt her, and he didn't need to hear the voicemail to confirm it, either. She hasn't gotten a call back from her mother in months and getting the same treatment from her new boyfriend, the one she'd been necking with on the ferris wheel hours before his disappearance, couldn't of settled well.

Soul digs his feet into the carpet. "She probably hates me. Thinks I'm some trashy guy who just wanted her for her body and ran once I got it."

His brother clears his throat. "Did you use protection?"

"I didn't- we didn't  _have sex,_ " Soul splutters. "Just…"

"Fooled around?" Wes smiles gently, knowingly. "I was seventeen once too, Soul."

"Yeah, like twenty years ago," he scoffs.

Admittedly, he deserves the noogie Wes pulls him into. That doesn't mean he doesn't kick and scream and complain, though, because dammit he's having a good hair day the last thing he needs is to be pulled into a headlock by a geezer. "I was coming in here to offer help, you know," Wes grunts, wrassling Soul into his arms again and digging his knuckles into his hair, wriggling his fist around. "Maybe you should consider being nicer,  _little brother_."

"Fuuuuck, leggo!"

"What's the magic word?"

Soul squawks as Wes shoves his headband to the floor. "Fhhh- uncle, uncle! Wes is the coolest and a total lady killer!"

"And don't you forget it!" he huffs, pseudo-dramatic, and releases him; Soul tumbles to the floor and kicks a leg out in retaliation, aiming for Wes' knee. He misses and kicks his wheeled computer chair across the instead.

They pant and stare at each other for a long moment before finally, something snaps and they both crack up. The laughter is therapeutic and he tosses his head back, right against the carpet, and wheezes.

"Get out of here," Wes advises, hefting him to his feet by the hand and tidying his hair. "I'll deal with Mom and Dad."

It takes a lot of guts to stand up to their parents. Wes is older, yes, but still wears the family name with pride - he's the trophy son, after all, the alpha dog, and while he might have more leeway, Soul's not sure it'll ever be enough. There's a dark, secretive part of him that's afraid he's not meant to be happy, that he's not destined to have friends or hold a girl's hand and feel whole and right.

But his only choice is to trust his big brother. It's that or sit back and wait, to marinate in his misery and leave his little taste of heaven behind. The pull the gang at the arcade has on him is impressive, and he locks eyes with Wes at once and nods solemnly.

He makes for the window and gets pulled back by his collar. "The door, Soul."

"I knew that."

* * *

If this were an 80's film, he would have brought a boombox and stood outside her window, begging for her forgiveness. He hadn't wronged her on purpose - he'd never dream of it - and it had just been bad timing, and they were both victims of circumstance. Soul thinks back to anything he could've done differently to prevent the fallout and can't think of anything other than maybe asking his parents if skipping practice was okay, and even then, it doesn't sem like a sound plan.

He wonders if it was wrong to pursue her when he knew that they were destined to fail in the end. He wonders if it was ever okay for him to become her dancing partner if he was never fully capable of committing and being there for her all of the time. It's not a matter of if he'd wanted to or not, but more so of if it was right to tease her with anything as unstable as his company.

He's a performer, after all, just not in the way she needs him to be. Not in the way he wants to be.

Dancing with Maka feels less like pressure and more like recreation; Soul enjoys having her hands on his hips and leading him through the steps, likes watching her nose crinkle when he misses a beat and laughing with her when they finally manage to nail a routine. It's painful when she stomps on his foot instead of an arrow, and he's still not great at working his hips, but it's fun being able to feel the music and express himself without fear of the world judging him.

But it's not an 80's film. He's no leading man, not to Maka's box office success, and part of him is terrified that he'll never be good enough to stand in her light.

He digs up a pebble and lobs it at her window.

"Maka!" Soul cups his hands over his mouth and hollars. "Maka, open up!"

Her silhouette trails by her window, shrouded by her rose-printed curtains. His throat feels like it weighs a thousand pounds and his nerves are strangling him and oh, god, does she even care anymore? Has she moved on? Maybe she's found someone else, someone courageous and proud and who doesn't slouch like he's 75.

He doesn't expect to hear her rip the door open. He definitely doesn't expect her to break out into a run towards him, and nearly trip over his discarded bike along the way. She screams a lot of things at him all at once, and he only catches tidbits like  _you jerk,_  and  _I was so worried,_ and especially  _where have you been?_  before she literally throws herself at him and they collapse into the grass together. His back breaks her fall and she takes his winded moment of weakness to dig her knees into the earth and straddle him.

 _Well._ Her neighbors are probably staring. Maka's skirt practically rides around her hips, all bunched up and crooked, and he moves to smooth it down, but she slaps his hands away. "I've been calling you for  _days,_ " she hisses, green eyes so narrow and murky with betrayal and bitterness that it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. "If you didn't want to date me, you should've just said something instead of ditching me! I thought you were  _different,_  Soul, I  _trusted_ you-"

"-Maka, my phone was confiscated. I'm  _grounded,_ " he finally interrupts.

Her eyes go wide. "What?"

"I was sneaking out to see you guys all summer, Maka. I got caught coming back late. I'm not really even supposed to be here right now, but I heard your voicemail and I didn't want you to think I'm a total dickbag," he grunts. Nothing about her spiel sits well with him; doesn't she know him better than that? "But clearly I'm too late for that."

The brittle look she wears for all of three seconds shatters to make way for her rage, and suddenly she's acid, digging her fingers into his shoulders and staring at him with misplaced malice and aggravated neglect. "That's not fair," she hisses, expression taut. Maka can't keep herself from expressing, not ever, because even with her face tense and features even, her eyes are still violent with articulation. "How was I supposed to know that? You kissed me and disappeared. I thought - I thought you wanted… me.  _Us._ "

He licks his dry lips and hopes the look he gives her is positively scalding. "If only you knew the half of it."

Soul watches her swallow, enthralled with the way her throat moves and works. Her skin is so pale and unblemished, but he remembers how she tastes clear as day, remembers how easily she'd pinked beneath the scraping of his teeth.

"... So you do want?" Maka asks in a tiny voice.

He barks out a laugh and drums his hands lightly along the back of her thighs. His fingers reach and he tugs the hem of her skirt down chastely. "I might've been sleeping with the shark behind your back."

She gasps and swats at him. "You dirty rotten cheater! Soul Evans!"

"I was a lonely man," he croons, grinning wide and loving the way her cheeks tint. She wears color well, be it sunburn or a blush. "He's not a very good dancer though. I was considering coming crawling back to you."

It's not easy for him to voice his feelings. He's just not hardwired like that and words don't come easily, but he hopes Maka can read between the lines. When she quirks a brow expectantly, Soul manages to wrangle out an apology, red faced and uncomfortable, and she cooes his name and kisses his nose as the neighbors cheer.

"Go back to watching GSN!" he scolds, waving a fist off the ground and aiming it at the nice middle aged couple from across the street. "Show's over, people!"

They waddle away and Maka muffles taps of her fingers into his chest. She's almost rhythmic, almost, but she's still off beat and he doesn't have the heart to tell her. She quirks a grin at him and leans over to whisper "Wanna partner up?" and he doesn't even hesitate to bite her lip.

* * *

"No stress, Soul," Maka murmurs, jaw cupped in her hands and forehead against his. Soul finds himself focusing on the sound of her breath, an even, sturdy in and out that he can lose himself in. She's steadying and fearless, and the faith she has in him bleeds through her words and fuels him. "We've got this in the bag."

"Yeah," he mirrors, nervous hands combing through a messy pigtail. "No sweat."

* * *

They're a well oiled machine, limbs moving and feet stomping in perfect tandem. Things like arm placement and shimmying hips are less of an issue now that he knows where his feet are supposed to go. The timing practice really paid off; he doesn't have to stare at the screen obsessively and can instead glance over at Maka instead, watch her as she reaches for his hand and allows him to  _march,_  not  _prance,_  around the pad and back over to her.

It's uncool. So, so, uncool. It's also silly and campy, and it brings a smile to her face when he reaches behind her and hoists her up, cupping her ass with his forearms and shuffling ahead. It's all scripted and acted out, of course, but he still takes a little bit of joy in pressing her tiny self against him and jostling her.

She gasps and leaps down to pound the left arrow, but breaks the act to reach forward and flick his nose for copping a quick feel. Busted.

He's so intune with the game and  _her_  that he's almost not even bothered by the shittastic music that Maka picked out. They'd 'agreed' on it, but in reality it'd been a lot of Maka shoving options at him and him deciding which is the least awful (and also easiest, because he's still sort of impaired when it comes to following the arrows). He makes a face and she winks, so goddamn full of it, and he has half a mind to reach out and flick her back.

But Maka's so much better at keeping her feet moving and toying with him than he is and he doesn't dare allow himself the chance to get his feet tied, so he keeps going. He settle for winking back and flipping the bird at her, a feat that earns him a sharp gasp and a rousing chorus of " _oooooh"_  from the crowd behind them.

She spins around and links her hands with his. He tries to lead but somehow Maka gets ahead, like she always does, and they shift and prance back and forth, back and forth until he spins and circles her himself, and then he's keeping the beat on her side of the mat while she crosses her arm and watches.

She's so damn coy. It's adorable.

Maka mirrors him, keeping her own beat on his (her?) side of the stage and then they're in unison again. Step by step and beat by beat they move in perfect synchronization, a force, an ocean, rapid motion and linked fingers. Soul gives a tug and she moves in front of him, planting her hands on the bars and his hands grab her hips as they mash the arrows together.

He quite likes this position. Maybe if there weren't so many people around, he might be more inclined to move closer, to press himself against her gyrating behind and really feel her rhythm, but that's an exhibition more jarring than his fleeting case of stage fright. Maybe some other time when they're alone. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe later tonight.

She smiles at him from over her shoulder and bumps her hips back. It's not in the plan  _at all_ and he jump back, eyes wide and face rushing to match the shade of eyes.

_Minx._

Maka twirls out and they link ankles. They fist bump together, pumping and jumping as they move in a circle. He makes sure to catch all three of the outer arrow on his trip around his side of the board, and the bottom one on hers, too.

They're so close now, racing toward the final strand of arrows and beats. It's the same song and dance as before, the same motions and array of arrows and sway of Maka's slim hips and his long limbs but their enthusiasm never falters. Maka's nothing if not energetic and passionate, and she tosses her arms up in the final stretch and hollers her excitement.

The song ends with a final stomp up and the crowd bursts into cheers.

He feels rather like cheering too, because both of his feet are still planted on the ground and his cool hasn't died a tragic death yet, but he can't; Maka flings herself at him, hands in his hair and lips against his, and his mouth's suddenly occupied.

Soul can't find it in him to complain. Not while she's smiling against his kiss and gloriously victorious in his arms, not ever.


End file.
